after thanksgiving break, i had this nice little thing written up about being home. it was all about how we can retrace the sacred stories of our past as we travel through even the most mundane parts of our hometowns, how even strip malls can be exalted if you once made out to NPR jazz in the parking lot. well, i'm taking it back. home is not always a nice trip through make-out lane, sometimes it's an awful reminder that at the end of this lovely educational road is a nice brick wall that says "you can't go home again." 'cause i'm here now, home, and i can't wait to get out. it's been awesome seeing old friends, and i've even had some cool conversations with people from high school that i haven't talked to in years. but on the family side of things, it's driving me crazy. my sisters treat me like a second-class citizen, my parents keep laying down the law for me as they let my other sister do whatever she wants, and this town? oh, it could be cute. quaint. cozy. except when you realize there's nothing within half an hour's drive to do.

phew.

whine, whine, whine, i know. just had to put that out there.

there's a lot of good things about home, a tidy display of the ingrediants from whence you came. but unfortunately, for now, it's a tough place to visit, and i wouldn't want to live there.

12/28/2001 06:23:05 PM

*lights up. setting: church retreat, lake in wisconsin.*

I was locked out of an abbey recently, at 5:15 a.m. ... I'd gone outside to see the meteor shower. But I didn't think to prop the door behind me.

When you're sitting there in a stone doorway, next to all the glowing welcoming warmth in the world but unable to open the door to it, things begin to make sense. "Locked doors" become not just some metaphor but a cold (cold) reality. Through the window I could see the reception desk, the signs pointing to the chapel, the stained glass windows. But I wasn't going in until someone else opened that door.

I listened for any sign of human life -- even another person locked out. All I heard was the wind on the lake. Time became irrelevant -- the next event that mattered wasn't the turning of an hour but the opening of the door. I tried ringing the doorbell once, but no one answered. I laughed at how silly this was. I mused about a few things. Like how on the Internet, no one's ever alone. And if you make a mistake and exit a page accidentally, there's the "back" button. But in real life, when the door's locked and you're outside, someone else has to open it. Literally and metaphorically and all the rest.

Half an hour later, after trying all the back doors and watching the mail truck come and go, I glimpsed a monk through the dining room window. He'd begun setting up breakfast.

*music up*

I waved a little frantically in the window, and he opened the door.

"Thank you," I gushed, as the warm air filled my lungs.

"Okay!" he said and went back to the dining room.

I could've hugged him, but I don't think he would've liked it.


It made me think about the value of one, how the value of something corresponds to how much you need it. It sounds like a slogan for the army, sure, but it's true, and it's something I often forget. We've all played that role for someone, at some time or other, been that one when needed most, maybe without realizing it. And I think we've all felt that gratitude, too -- when someone appears, to let you back in. I've got to remember it in little things: The cashier who smiled when you were having a bad day. The fellow jogger who waved. The roommate who bought the apartment toilet paper. Finally. And big things: The friends in my study abroad program who made it all okay. The boy who healed my heart again. The best friend who loves me more than ice cream.

This isn't to dwell, get all sentimental and dreamy (not that there's anything wrong with that). It's to say "thank you," and "okay!" and appreciate things just a little bit more.

*music out. lights down.*

12/9/2001 11:36:59 AM

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